


gotcha

by verbatiim



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Guns, Misgendering, Other, Self-Hatred, Slight Violence, Trans Mirage, bamboozling, elliott's fucking dumb, it's not mentioned but it's just true, just once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-25 20:45:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18171245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbatiim/pseuds/verbatiim
Summary: It is not often that they lose track of something. Someone.No, not often. Almost never.





	gotcha

_Heartrate stabilizing._  


The eyes of the hunter burn as their back thumps against metal siding. A slow slide and they touch down to the ground, damp soil cushioning the blow. The game is still young. Fresh.  


_Five hostiles detected. Low ammunition._  


They groan. Coming here was the mistake of an amateur. Greed had never overtaken them so easily and entirely like it had today, sacrificing safety for the idea of _more_. More weapons, more rations, more opponents to add to the bodycount.  


The Blood Hunter was no sadist. But these things made for a quicker win. Smoother. More impressive.  


_One hostile detected. Reload._  


It can’t be right.  


Bloodhound digs one heel into the ground, raking up dirt in an attempt to stand once more. Their hair sticks to their forehead beneath the unforgiving heat of the mask and they exhale. Just one. No gunshots. No footprints. No noise. Five enemies have reduced to one in a matter of moments, silently, and the Hound’s head spins as they finally get to their feet. Shove the last clip into their weapon.  


It is not often that they lose track of something. Some _one_.   


No, not often. Almost never.  


The creak of floorboards above them makes them halt. Their back presses into the stilts of the structure as they gaze upward, a gentle touch to their wrist in a practiced motion, muscle memory. A thousand times. The world lights up.  


A shaky shadow makes itself known directly over their head.  


_There you are._  


Here, another ritual. A quiet funeral procession for the one who foolishly believes he is the last man standing. Hound holsters their gun as they move, climb, listen to the continued sound of the wood whining beneath the weight of whoever remains in the supply shed.  


He lingers too long. What is he looking for?  


Through the open door he comes into view. Bright, young, crouched and rummaging for something in an abandoned backpack. It almost crosses their mind to feel bad. Sorry. What it must feel like to be hunted, snuck up on and cornered, massacred from behind like helpless prey. They shake the thought physically, shoulders twisting to rid themself of it, and take aim.  


Fire.  


The man neither dies, nor moves. He seems content to dig in his bag. Bloodless.  


_You do not miss._  


And they don’t. And they didn’t.  


“Y’know, I gotta admit…” All at once, there’s a voice and a heartbeat and the man in front of them is gone in a flash of blue light. They’re knocked to the ground in an instant, a blow to the back of the head forcing the air from their lungs. “I may have tricked you.”  


Gloved hands curl against the floor for less than a minute, though it feels much longer. Feels like the seconds drag on, like they are there for an eternity, processors firing off in their brain that sound familiar, like a mentor, like their mother, like _what are you doing, what are you_ **_doing?  
  
_**

_He has a gun. Get up._  


He hasn’t moved. He seems smug. Bloodhound kicks his left knee in with what force they can gather, follows up with an elbow when he curses and buckles to the ground with them.   


“Ha, shit.”  


And he won’t stop _talking_.  


Predatory, they rise, make an attempt to create some distance and fumble with their weapon. No, not fumble. The Blood Hunter is intentional. Every move is planned, calculated, precise fingers and shots and kills, as it should be, as it always _has_ been.  


But the man has already risen, as well. He brushes his suit off casually. Only has the wherewithal, or perhaps the audacity, to look surprised when Hound finally raises their gun.  


“Now, hey, buddy.” Calm. Collected. For what it’s worth, the showmanship doesn’t seem as disingenuous as it is. He raises his hands in front of his chest, _slow down, let’s talk this out_ , makes the hunter’s hands twitch against the pistol. Then he smiles. And he’s out the door.  


“ _Anzvíti_.”  


The chase, though sometimes the Hound’s favourite part, is not what they need right now. They need ammunition, medication. For them to pursue one target for so long is a waste of time and resources, perhaps a waste of a game. Of a win. _Doubt yourself again, and die._ Except it isn’t long. As soon as they shoulder out the door, the garrish man is visible again, running into the open, and it takes hardly a moment’s thought to unload their final clip into that arrogant child. And how satisfactory it is to watch him fall to the ground. To die so easily, after making them look like such a fool.  


“Blood, guts, gore… And _death!_ I mean,” his voice forces a consultation with the sky, the Allfather himself, _what is happening?_ “Really good job on that one. Would’ve been a clean kill. You’re pretty good at this.” Hound holsters the empty weapon with a measured patience. Hovers a palm over their wrist once more, places it down easily, allows their eyes to be lead downward.   


_One hostile detected._  


Directly below, like a game. The fox and the hound. They jump, swift, knock the shotgun from his hands as they land, and he dares to look impressed.  


And then he looks scared.  


Good.  


He dodges the hunter’s fist with ease, reeling back until knuckles just barely graze his chin, and grabs for their arm. “Getting handsy, aren’t we?” There is a certain recklessness in that voice. As though he is happy. As though no matter how this game ends, it doesn’t matter. Hound recognizes the tone. Someone who thinks he will not be missed. He smiles again as he shoves them into the wall. “I mean, this is kinda romantic.”  


“You say so much, yet it means so little.”  


“So he does speak.”  


At that, their mouth curls at the edges, their knees lock. In a childish move their head bashes against his, helmet vibrating with the force of the blow, and the man swears so loudly the ground seems to shake. Blood trickles from his forehead, slow and thick. An amateur. Just as they’d thought. This is his first game, and it will undoubtedly be his last.  


“If you weren’t prepared for close-range combat,” another elbow to the ribs. He groans, now, backing up against the opposite wall. “You should have chosen a different gun.” The chest. The stomach. The head, again. And again, and again, and again. It’s not long at all until he’s back on his knees, just like upstairs. One hand raised for mercy. “Though I assume there will not be a next time.”  


Bloodhound was no sadist. But when predator meets prey, well.  


Skilled fingers slide into his hair, grab, twist. Yank his skull back, until his neck is bending and his chin is up and he’s really looking at them. And he’s still smiling. Blood from his nose has begun to run into his mouth and down the back of his throat. From this close, behind the carnage, Hound can see freckles on his unfortunate face.   


“I know you,” he says, deliriously, wet laugh bubbling up until he chokes and spits. “The Blood Hunter. Thought it was just hype.”  


Their head tilts minutely.  


“And what do they call you?” As soon as the question leaves their lips, there is a righteous fist in their face, strong knuckles cracking both eyepieces on their mask. Some acute warnings appear within a second to warn them of the damage and it’s all too distracting when it shouldn’t be, and then the man is up and grappling for his weapon again.  


The shotgun settles on his back like it belongs there. He isn’t going to kill them. He can’t. They both know it. Instead, he chuckles again.  


“Mirage.” He ceases to exist immediately, and Hound is surrounded by the fake versions of him from when they had first engaged.  


_Five hostiles detected._  


“ _Sjitturinn_ , I _knew_ it, you—” What? Coward?  


_He outsmarted you. You should have killed him._  


Angrily, they attempt to repair whatever this _Mirage_ had damaged, glancing feverishly at the ever-closing ring. It isn’t over. They have syringes, there will be time to gather more supplies, there must be. It is not their time. A game has never been lost for them, and this will not be the first. Not because of him.  


And so they go.  


And for the first time since they began to play, it is a close victory. A hard-fought battle. They finish their last opponent with something like relief, something like satisfaction, because it isn’t that poor boy from the wetlands. No, he had gotten himself killed some other way. As they thought. Despite the distraction and the wasted time and the doubt, the lingering feeling of wrongness, they win. Again. As they thought. As they planned. As did everyone else.  


They are tired and dirty. Their mask is broken in a way that needs to be addressed as soon as they get off of this terrible island, but through shattered lenses they look onto the crowd of spectators that has gathered at the arena’s exit. Cheering for a game of slaughter. It seems sick for so many people to look on at them like a hero, but they look right back.  


Mirage’s stare is the one that holds theirs the longest.  


And then he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> anzvíti - damn  
> sjitturinn - shit fuck god dammit
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
> hey guys look! it's not mcgenji :)  
> my knowledge of this game is limited to the 2 times i've played it and everything my boyfriend tells me but miragehound is kinda [italian chef kiss]


End file.
